


Like Home

by bangbang_dear



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Emetophobia, Gen, questionably intense friendship feelies, toward the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4258857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangbang_dear/pseuds/bangbang_dear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Joshua hates piano, hates his parents, hates journaling, and kind of thinks Neku is okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Home

            Private journaling in school is utterly pointless.

            This was the resounding sentiment lodged somewhere between his eye sockets, where he could feel a culminating pressure pushing his skull, and so he was certain similarly resilient, resentful thoughts had packed themselves there into a writhing mass of somersaulted ire. Like a neurological traffic jam. Granted, however, this notion was too medieval for much meditation, definitely not worthy of undergoing trepanation, and he more realistically chalked the pressure up to flaring sinuses. And no  _wonder_ he felt mildly congested. There were few places on this planet stuffier than this classroom and few people on this earth more suffocating than the people occupying it.

            … but back to why private journaling is utterly pointless.

             Most senseless of all was the “private” aspect of private journaling. The uppity scholastic vantage point was with a goal in mind to lure students into writing originally, at least once a day, if only when under the passive scrutiny of a ten-minute silence and a forty-minute instructor. In theory, the concept that anything written would not be read would free up their naïve, angsty little fingertips to scribe the poetry of the future. What this actually meant was one half of the room doodled cartoon animals to look busy while the other half barely feigned productivity at all. Even the most insufferably studious pupils had pages in their notebooks that were nearly untouched, save for the date and topic in the corner.

            Which brings attention to today’s topic, the series of lumps scrawled offensively messy in spidery script across the whiteboard: “Describe your life right now in one sentence.”

            This was supposed to make them get creative. To think and analyze and pick out what was most important to them, express all of the galaxies inside while condensing stars into craters, Jupiter into Venus.

             Joshua could potentially pen down the snarkiest response of his academic career. This writing prompt itself could aptly summarize the past two weeks of his life.  _Pointless_. Fruitless. Just a silly participation routine in which performance itself was leveled and demeaned into that godawful “everyone is a winner” attitude. He could actually, literally copy down the prompt twice and be able to justify how it applied to his existence.

             This would be as bad a time as any to back up a bit.

            The night before last had been the first night he had gotten a decent sleep in an unfairly extensive amount of time. Why?  _Piano_. Goddamn stupid piano. Ever insistent that they showcase their son’s painstakingly fostered talents, his parents had quite spontaneously decided his name belonged on the program sheet for a local young musician’s concert—just in time for midterm exams. For two entire miserable weeks, his life was an endless void of homework, study, piano, early rise for school, early rise for practice, early rise for auditions, homework, all-nighter because _fuck_ , he hadn’t studied yet, rehearsal one, rehearsal two, practice, practice,  _practice_ —

            Could he have phoned his mom and sobbed and begged her to withdraw his name and refused to touch a godforsaken instrument of any kind for the rest of his life? Yes. Did he? No. Of course he didn’t. He always wanted to—but he  _never_  did.

            And … there had been something especially different and appealing about this particular hellish arrangement. This time, they had promised to be  _there_  for the concert. They had their tickets home pre-ordered, paid for, done, sealed deal,  _they would be there_. And somehow, somewhere in his sardonic gut and skeptic’s heart, he had been excited. At least this time, they would see what he could do, in person, live, from an audience, front row, instead of … asking his caretaker how he had fared and maybe reviewing the official recorded footage a week later.

            In short, he had put effort into it this time. Real, honest to goodness effort. He hadn’t invested more than a metaphorical pinky lift of exertion for  _anything_ , in years. Sure, he had despised his parents and their impulsive decisions in which they factored none of his personal input, every second, every pounded chord—but he was going to be perfect for them.

            When the stage was his, he had instantly, instinctively, with an intestinal flutter of something near to joy, flicked his eyes down to see—two empty seats in the front row.

            They hadn’t shown.

             Surprised? No. Devastated? Oh, yes. And later that miserable evening, his phone had buzzed right on cue, as expected, like every other time he found himself cruelly disappointed. Out from the speaker came the spiel he knew by heart, only with a few words rearranged or omitted or injected: an excuse, several honeysweet apologies, ego stroking, “we’re so proud of you,” “I can’t wait to see you again,” “we’ll make it next time,” “behave yourself,” “keep up with your studies,” “I have to run now, sweetie.”

             Nothing new and nothing consoling.

             The concert hall held that he played with passion, zeal, the true heart of a young, up and rising virtuoso. Really, he had been envisioning that each and every brush of his fingers spat flames, ignited finely lacquered keys, bellowed smoke into the ringing belly of this wretched, horrible,  _abominable_ instrument, until its innards began to melt and hammers melded together and the sound board fell away into ash, and the entirety of it combusted into an effigy for his hopes, an inferno, a tangible _hell_  that finally reflected himself accurately.

              _Pointless_. Investing heart and soul into a display which was never beheld by the most tenderly important eyes is pointless. Just like this  _stupid_ , time-wasting journal exercise.

             Oh god, he hated piano—now, more than ever. He had half a mind to roll that torture device out of their home music room, through the foyer, out the door, down the winding driveway, and into oncoming traffic. He would buy the unlucky victim of impact a new car. They would have earned it, in his mind. This was all a very tempting idea to him, and there was only  _one_  tiny detail stopping him.

            His pencil tapped a new staccato against the open page in front of him, a different rhythm, a  _different_  kind of jittery. Without even delving extensively for the memory, his mind could summon up the gist of the exchange—surprisingly delightful even in its grouchy banter—as carried out when a certain person had so mercifully dropped in to see what kind of hole he had crawled into lately. It had been surprising, bewildering, and a lot like opening a window after you burn something in the oven. Refreshing.

             Practice was near to bearable when he was trying not to laugh at Neku squinting at the board under his hands, trying to mimic the proper alignment of Joshua’s fingers, mumbling letters beneath his breath in a quietly desperate attempt to retain information given to him. His brow had been knit a little too tensely and his shoulders hunched a little too tightly (awful, awful posture), and it was a brand of concentration witnessed only when someone discovers something new and mysterious and captivating. As condescending an ass as Josh had been at the time, Neku was not too shabby in terms of picking up on music theory, even if it was just the very, very basics. And … he would never fess up to it, but his stopping by had made a world of difference for him that day. It stopped him from ripping a bald spot in his scalp, at least. And, the fact that someone had been concerned with his sudden withdrawal from the world of the living in the first place …

            The piano could stay for a while, he supposed.

            His pencil tapped more so rapidly.

            Vexingly, the revisiting of that memory caused his stomach to roll and flip and coil in rather foreign ways. It felt like being ill, but instead of hurling up his lunch, he had to bite his lips or else he would spit up an uninvited smile. Somehow … even though it had been a drastic change of pace, it was familiar. He could almost forgive stupid, awful, terrible, torturous piano, if it continued to bring about such reprises from reluctance and obligation and monotony.

        He couldn’t place the feeling, exactly, just yet. But it made his limbs absurdly giddy, numb, light to think he had a friend, a first friend, a  _real_ friend.

             Now, back to pointless,  _pointless_  journaling …

            The page stared back up at him, waiting.

            His life right now in one sentence. Everything that mattered in one line.

             _“He feels like home.”_  


End file.
